Uncommon Wisdom
by lydia the eleventh
Summary: OneShot. Crossover PotC x Jane Austen's Persuasion. Speaking to a young Frederick Wentworth, James Norrington warns of following his disasterous path. AWE Spoilers.


It was a raw night in the Channel, but so winter's nights had always been, and always would be. There was nothing more to do about it pray. The pumps were going at all watches, and the poor carpenter, Mr. Segundus, hadn't had a wink of sleep since this mess began – up at all hours, trying to keep the rotten hull of the _Asp_ together long enough to see land again.

Captain Wentworth's thoughts flew to England at the thought of earth, and thence, to Somersetshire, where he was only too aware his thoughts had no place being.

He had a ship to run, though by the shaking of her timbers and the howling in the rigging, he wouldn't have her much longer. A man of changing humors, he quickly thought up his own epitaph in the _Naval Gazette_ – _We regret to inform the Reader of the loss of the Gallant Captain Wentworth,_ etc. He was fairly certain he did not merit the use of a Christian name, and more emphasis would be put on the loss of the _Asp_ than him.

There was an element of comedy that his life would end now, before his twenty-fifth birthday, but there it was.

Something moved in the corner of his eye – a trick of the lightening, perchance, or the buckling of timber. He turned back to his dispatches, glaring ineffectually at the oil lamp which threatened to sputter out at any minute.

No, something was there.

"Kilwich?"

The response was an indignant snort that was not his steward's.

"Hardly, Captain Wentworth," an unfamiliar voice drawled.

Captain Wentworth's hand went to his pistol.

"Show yourself."

A piece of the shadow obligingly detached itself, stepping into the dim candlelight – a tall man, bent under the low timbers of the cabin. His brocade coat was long, and his wig (a nearly forgotten custom itself), antiquated.

The tall man, hands clasped behind his back, raised an eyebrow.

"This is hardly the welcome I'd hoped for, coming out here in the middle of a gale."

"I don't hold with stowaways."

"I'm no stowaway, Captain," the man – the apparition – replied genially, "Consider me a visitor, or an evening's entertainment. I'll be gone before morning."

The man proceeded to seat himself across from Wentworth.

Wentworth, being the reasonable, rational man that he was, knew there could be no soul aboard his ship that he didn't know. He knew there could be no reaching the _Asp_ by open boat on a night like this. It was impossible that this man should be here, looking as though he had just returned from the Court of St. James, and George the First's court, no less.

"You're quite right," the stranger noted, as if reading his thoughts, "It is rather odd that I should be here. I believe an introduction is in order – no need for you. You are Captain Frederick Wentworth. I am just a Captain."

Wentworth nodded, and shook hands with the Captain. His hand was as cold as ice.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, Captain?" He asked, puzzled.

The Captain shrugged. "I am here."

"Forgive me, Sir, but-"

"No protests. I would not be here if I wasn't needed."

Wentworth tried to protest, puzzled by his impossible visitor, but the Admiral shushed him and walked to the stern windows. They fell into silence.

"You drive your ship hard, Captain Wentworth."

"I do no more than I ought."

The Captain shook his head sadly at the younger man.

"I drove my ship like this, once. The _Dauntless_. Disregard of anything but my duty sunk her and killed many of my crew. Take in your sails, Captain Wentworth, and ride this gale out."

"This is _my_ ship, sir," Wentworth protested, indignantly

"I do not take command from you."

Another silence.

"You should not bury your misfortunes with duty, Captain."

"And what do you know of my misfortunes?" Wentworth snapped.

"Her name is Anne," the Captain replied emotionlessly, still looking out the stern window, "She refused you to salve her family's feelings."

"I do not drive the _Asp_ hard to forget her, Captain," Wentworth said, coldly, "I do have a duty. You understand that, I am sure."

"Too well." The Captain said bitterly, and Captain Wentworth caught sight of the stranger's reflection in the dark glass. His face was harsh, but melancholy.

"Tell me, is the tale of Commodore James Norrington still known?"

Wentworth thought for a bit.

"The Scourge of Piracy?"

The Captain smiled tightly. "The very one. What do you know of him?"

"A young officer, they say. Temperate, but sailed his ship through a hurricane, and ended badly."

"Why?"

"Went mad."

"Ah. So that is his story, now." The Captain did not conceal the bitter pain in his voice.

"Do you know any better?"

"I do. I knew the man," he pronounced slowly, "He did not go mad. He fell in love with the Governor's daughter, Elizabeth Swann, and she refused him. The next day, he sailed from Port Royal, and lost his ship through his own recklessness. He fell from the record, but returned as an Admiral of the East India Trading Company; he brought about his own disgrace yet again and died to save Elizabeth Swann."

The point of this tale was only too obvious to Captain Wentworth.

"Do not be that man, Captain Wentworth. You have a long life ahead of you. Things will look up. You have not damned yourself as he did."

The Captain finally turned from the window, and stared down at Wentworth. The younger man felt as he, as a midshipman, had when under the inspection of his Captain, and thought, however fleetingly, that this Captain was more.

Captain Wentworth crossed the cabin in a few quick strides, threw open the door, and bellowed, "Shorten sail!"

"Your men will thank you," the Captain smiled.

Wentworth shook his head.

"Who are you?"

"I told you: I am the Captain."

"Who sent you?"

"I am here."

"Why did you tell me this tale?"

"Because no one told me."

The Captain walked back toward the shadows.

"And what happened to you?"

"I died," he said, simply.

Wentworth ought to have been shocked, but it was such a night and he was not. It was bitterly cold and stormy, and anything could have happened. Sailors are a superstitious lot, and Wentworth was no exception – a messenger from the dead might well be sent to the living, as naturally as the reefing of sails or the caulking of the hull.

"For duty?" He called out.

"No," the Captain laughed bitterly, disappearing into the shadows until only his voice remained, "I died for Elizabeth."


End file.
